Prayers for the Fragile Ones
by Hopalong
Summary: This short story is based on a classic Gunsmoke theme, the homesteader versus the land. Dorothea Lange's iconic "Migrant Mother" photos served as inspiration. Complete.


I've visited here many, many times as a reader; it's time for sharing.

**Prayers for the Fragile Ones**

Looking out across the prairie it's hard to think of it as a dangerous adversary. It picks and chooses who it fights with and when. Like those clouds up there, not many in the sky but each one casts a shadow. If you get caught under that shadow you either manage to hang on and survive or you perish. Simple as that. It's a delicate balance between success and failure, life or death. There are far more failures than there are successes, that's the way it is out here.

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The big man traveled in a slow roundabout way. Taking his time. Acting on a need to be alone. He rode tall, his horse the color of the parched ground; each planted hoof accompanied by the snapping sounds of dry brittle grasses.

Across the flatness of the land he'd been watching it for over half a mile, a dark shape dancing in and out of the waves of the August afternoon heat. Distance finally breached, the image clear. "A horse!" His loud exclamation startling, prompting a laugh. Bringing on more laughter at the absurdity of the laugh itself. There it stood, old, swaybacked, more bone than muscle, more gristle than meat. Oblivious. Saddle-less. Wearing a crude hackamore, its rope end dragging in the dirt. Riding up alongside he reached out, grabbing hold of the make-shift in his saddle as a voice called out.

Lying on the ground hips to legs at an odd angle, an injured man pleaded, "Water, please, some water," as the big man cautiously rode near. Dismounting before his horse came to a stop he rushed over to where the man lay. "What happened?" he asked, meting out a small sip of water before picking up a dust covered hat, folding it to cushion the man's head against the hardness of the ground.

In a halting voice, "Horse stumbled. We both fell. Rolled over on top of me. Crazy old horse is fine. I ended up like this, all broken inside." Looking up into eyes filled with concern he added with a weary sadness, "I'll be dyin' soon."

His shadow lengthened, spreading across the injured man as he climbed to his feet, shrinking again as he turned and walked over to the horses. Bedroll untied, he collected a few sticks and picked up a rock, hefting it to judge its usefulness before returning to where the injured man lay. Dropping to one knee he pounded four sticks into the hard ground, stretching his blanket across the makeshift frame, erecting a crude sun shade.

Noticing a badge pinned to the big man's shirt the injured man stated simply, "You're a lawman."

"Yeah," he eased himself down, sitting cross-legged at the side of the injured man and adjusted the brim of his hat against the angle of the sun.

"Badge says U.S. Marshal," taking in the big man's features, "you look kinda young."

Judging the injured man to be only a few years older than he, his answer came with habitual brevity, "Job ages a man pretty fast."

"Like farmin', I reckon." Both men were silent. A minute or more passed before the injured man said, "Thought I'd be dyin' alone." Adding, "I know it's a lot to ask a stranger. . ." embarrassment prompted him to avert his eyes."Will you stay with me 'till it's over?" The big man, answering with a single nod that went unseen, laid a reassuring hand on the dying man's shoulder.

Struggling with stops and starts it was the dying man who began the telling. Staving off the silence with tales of his childhood. Speaking of the dreams of his youth. His hand clutching, unclutching, pulling nervously on the side of his overalls. His need to say more hindered by exhaustion, he fell silent.

The big man waited, hesitating, then started with, "I grew up on a small ranch in Texas." He told of cattle drives, the sounds, the smells, the dust and dirt, sitting around a campfire at night too exhausted to eat; of the high country he explored, snow capped mountain peaks bright white against the crisp blueness of the sky, the sound of the wind weaving its way through firs and pines, the thunder of icy cold streams rushing over rocks. He spoke of wily mountain men and trappers, friends to him, and told tales of their adventures. He described the Indian tribes he knew, their dignity, the honest simplicity of their way of life. If he had youthful dreams, those he chose not to share.

Enough time spent listening, the dying man, some strength regained, voiced complaints of the past winter. Early snows followed by little more. The poor spring rains. The land this summer so dry, his fields were nothing but cracks zigzagging about like the stitching on a crazy quilt. His crops few and those that stood were withering away. He spoke of the plans he had for his farm, ruefully admitting they were always only dreams. With assurance he contended he would have made it through this year if the weather hadn't been against him.

Again his turn, "Dodge City, that's where I'm comin' from and headin' back to," the big man stated with some described the town, at first not much more than a few crude buildings, mostly saloons filled with ornery misfits and even ornerier buffalo hunters. A place any smart drifter hastily passed through. Recalling the days when stacks of green hides taller than a man filled the street. The awful stench. He told how they moved the town to meet the railroad, Old Dodge completely abandoned. "That was the truth," he explained how it was all about cattle now, trail outfits driving in the herds, buyers arriving by train from back east. He couldn't help but grin, it still was a pretty wild place when the herds were in and the drovers were mention of job or friends, he stopped.

Much time passed before the dying man spoke again, this time of his wife and children. Pausing, it was his eyes asking the question that the big man answered with a soft "No". The dying man, through expression alone, communicated regret at the big man's admission. Continuing on, he explained he was out here hunting for food, forced by necessity to go. A poor shot, he missed the one rabbit seen.

As darkness fell the big man lit a fire, prepared to keep it burning throughout the night; if the dying man opened his eyes there would something for him to see, not the darkness he would witness soon enough. The dying man woke only once, "My farm is 'bout ten miles due east." The big man had to lean close to hear. "Will you take my body back to my land for buryin'?" The simple question left him gasping for breath. Spent, his eyes closed.

Scattering the burning sticks, reducing the fire to a few fading embers, he remained seated next to the dead man, head tipped back, unmoving, watching the stars. In the privacy of the night he disappeared into himself until the stars themselves began to disappear as night made its exit.

A dim glow described the horizon as he carefully draped the blanket wrapped body across the back of the old horse, securing it with a length of rope. His own horse, side-stepping away, required gentle pats and softly spoken words to calm its nervousness. Placing his foot in the stirrup he slowly swung himself up into the saddle and headed east. Readying himself to face the day.

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Desolate. The house, along with shed, lean to, privy, and haphazardly constructed corral, sat in the middle of nowhere. Offering nothing, it spoke of hope lost. Its roof sagged in the middle, the bulk of its weight seemingly suspended from a stove pipe piercing through at one end, planks x-ing across its surface filled in for missing shakes. Empty gaps in the wall of the shed gave evidence of their origin. The porch overhang, support broken, dipped close to the ground at one end. A single window, shutter thrown back, glassless; its feed sack curtain hung as much out as in. Random piles of rocks littered the yard, collected with intent and abandoned. Three misshapen trees stood off to one side, branches bare.

His waiting excused by lack of courage, the big man remained at the top of the hill, blue eyes squinting in the bright sunlight, watching a woman hang laundry on a drooping line. He could see the path of her work, its history written in the dusty trail from wash tub to clothes line and back. Her movements spoke of exhaustion and defeat. Giving his horse a nudge he saw the woman look up as he slowly led the old horse down the hill.

He passed the remains of a broken plow as he rode up to the house. A baby lay on a ragged blanket in the shade of the porch. Naked. Its arms and legs splayed out in sleep. Minded by a young girl, blond hair cut short, dress sack-like, a rope sash tied round her waist. A boy not much older, stood next to her, his overalls lengthened by four inch wide bands of coarse fabric stitched to the cuffs. Their hollow-set eyes filled with fear.

The woman, angular and gaunt, stood still, work stopped. Her dress of a color no longer able to be described with any certainty. Hair pulled back, strands loosened, teased and tugged at by the wind. Holding a piece of clothing pressed against the washboard half submerged in the brownish water, she watched and waited. Her expression, at first wary, turned to confused recognition as the old horse stepped out of line. Suddenly comprehending, she slowly sank to the ground.

"Mama!" the girl's shrill cry pierced his heart.

He stood off to one side, hat in hand, eyes averted as the woman called her children to her. Arms thrown around her neck they clung to her, baby pressed to her breast. Allowing herself a moment's grief before starting the soothing words, stilling the girl's sobbing, murmuring reassuring words she rubbed her son's back, stopping his tears. The baby, whimpering softly, lay listless in her arms.

He led the old horse around the corner of the house, walking beyond the trees, following the woman and her children past rows of corn stalks mostly brown, a few with dried bean vines twisting up their height. Past the shed and lean to, past the corral, and over to a small area outlined in rocks. A marker at the head of a tiny grave.

The woman and her children worked, breaking apart the rock lined border, setting aside the stones. She started to refuse his offer of help, thought differently, and handed him the shovel. Fighting with the hard packed ground his shirt was soaked with sweat when he finished digging. His look one of surprise when the woman asked him to leave, burying was between a family and God, she the old horse back to the corral, he looked over his shoulder seeing the children each grab a handful of dirt, watching it fall slowly through their fingers. The woman's fell by the shovelful.

In front of the house, out of their line of sight, he sorted through his saddlebags, pulling out what food he had, a few pieces of jerky, some canned beans, and a small amount of coffee; placing it inside on the table before riding off. It was the middle of the night when he silently left two rabbits and three grouse at door, promising himself he'd be back to check on them. Soon.

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Abandoned. That was his first thought as he headed down the hill leading the pack horse with its load of flour, sugar, salt, dried beans, tinned meats, powdered milk, and coffee. It took him longer to return than he'd hoped, two short weeks stretched into two months. A trail herd in town, a trial, a trip with a prisoner to Hays, a bullet wound all frustrating his attempts to return.

The door stood half open, he stepped inside. A crude rag doll left on the table, its legs dangling off the edge. He picked it up carrying it back outside, arguing with himself but he knew. Walking around the corner of the house past the corn field littered with broken stalks, past the shed; he saw the old horse lying in the shade under the lean to, skeletal in death . . . and he knew. Steps faltering, he continued on.

Markers lovingly planted in a precise row, a record of a battle lost,two graves joined by a tiny third, a forth, a found the woman lying on her side in a shallow depression inside the rock lined plot. Her arm stretched across the last mound of earth, her final offering of comfort and support.

Retracing his steps he returned to the house. Sheets and blankets gone, he searched for a substitute. Pulling it down from the nails holding it in place, shaking out the dust, folding it carefully, he carried it back to the graves. The window curtain would be her shroud.

Setting the shovel aside, he gently placed her body in the hole, carefully spreading out the curtain, covering her head and shoulders. With every shovelful of dirt poured back in, a devil of dust leapt up and mockingly danced away until he found himself standing there, task completed, with a fury burning inside.

Filled with uncontrollable rage, he shouted out accusations, curses and damns . . . until his throat grew raw, his voice gave out. Grabbing the shovel, raising it high overhead, he brought it down with an angry force splintering the handle in two. First one half than the other flung away. Prizes given to the victor. The devils dancing on the wind.

Resetting the rocks, he insured their claim on the land. Their costly section of ground. Its perimeter defined. The tiny one, the first called Mary along with Samuel, Caleb, Martha, Eli, five waiting as he pounded in the final marker. Freshly carved, it named her _Wife & Mother_.

Standing outside the stones he closed his eyes and said silent prayers. Damaging ones filled with doubt and guilt. A cloud passing overhead its shadow darkening the ground as the big man dropped to his knees and added the most dangerous ones. The ones that crushed the spirit. Ones capable of blackening the soul . . . he whispered prayers of sorrow.


End file.
